12. Valorous

My father had once instructed me to find purpose in a verb rather than a noun; this was the only way to become a noun worthy of a positive adjective in this life. That which lived between these wise words had lain dormant within me for years, not quite forgotten, but never really called to mind either. Until the day my eyes first stopped to absorb her light.

Her. She was exchanging money for a hot dog with a vendor who smiled with a width that suggested he knew there would be no other customers that shone so bright for some time, if ever again. Based on the motioning of hands and the actions to follow, it would appear that she asked for extra mustard, and the old Italian smiled and obliged. A human after my own heart; I carry a travel-sized bottle of yellow mustard on my persons at all times.

The day was beautifully confused: frigid air to accompany the visual warmth from a cloudless sun.

Fortunate eyes held gaze on her as she strode by them. At the turn of a corner, compelled legs moved of their own accord to fulfill the wishes of eyes. This was not a stalking; it was magnetism.

An wisp of newborn cloud touched the line of eclipse, which had previously brought her to the sun and the sun to her, but no more. All subparts – the eyes, the legs – fell back into my ownership, and the trance fell to pieces. While she was swaddled in temporary shade, I could barely understand where I was or how I had gotten there.

Follow? The verb did not suit me well, nor did it entice the sort of adjective I wished to bear with my actions. All this from being enamored of a particularly lovely noun.

Shame would be both my noun and my verb as I turned my back to the accidental hypnotist and began to walk in the direction required of my initial errands to be ran in the city’s heart. The shrill cry of a woman tapped my shoulder, and before I knew it, the eyes were once again falling on a sun-drenched beauty, presently with a gun pointed at her ethereal face, whose change of expression switched temperatures inside the veins.

The lower portion of the mugger’s face was covered in bandanna, while the upper section was sheathed in a baseball hat and sunglasses. He barked at her and shook the pistol in front of her nose until she tearfully handed over the half-eaten hot dog. The sun reflected to me a woman crouching onto a sidewalk and using her hands to smother sobs.

Closer and closer, the burglar ran toward me, mustard flying behind him as a result of the movement of his sprinting arms – a golden mist.

The thought occurred and then was carried out before I had time to weigh the pros and cons. Right hand reached to the left breast pocket, retrieving my emergency bottle of yellow mustard. As the man approached, I painted the sidewalk yellow. As he slipped a little and then corrected his balance, I pointed the bottle at his face and closed his eyes for him. He screamed from the vinegar and dropped the hot dog into my outreaching hand.

“My hero! How brave!” She bestowed these words, these gifts, upon me as I handed the half of a street-vendor hot dog back to her, the rightful owner. “Thank you so much, my knight in mildly-shining polyester.”

“No pr-AH-blemo!” My voice cracked as I said this and I got embarrassed and scuttled away and slept under my bed for a few nights, cuddling dust bunnies who knew nothing of the power of words and would remain quiet until I gave them funny voices.

 

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